Get Away from Me
by St.Owl
Summary: My cousin Fish once told me that girls only get quiet, polite savvies. If only that were true . . .
1. Introduction

-Please note: I've only read Savvy, not the companions. Google assists me, but I may be inaccurate at times. Here's an idea: Review and tell me when I mess something up! (review other times too. Review _all_ times.)-

I never thought I'd get a very impressive savvy.

I'm not a very impressive person. You know that as soon as your younger siblings are born, and somehow you get wedged in the middle like that thin layer of mayo on a sandwich that seems to do nothing at all. My older brothers were funny, my younger sisters silly and special. I heard momma telling my elder brother and sister once, when she was a few months pregnant, to set a good example to whatever child came next, like they had done for me. _I_ was never told to be a good big sister. Even when the younger twins were born, and I was already eight, momma relied on my more mature siblings to take care of them. That was me, little old Ramona, always cast aside.

So I made my legacy in other ways. Small ways, but important ones. A sandwich is never the same if you don't have mayo, no matter what other things you pile in it.

I opened my door to everyone. I got rid of the lock. And whenever anyone needed to talk, or vent, they had a place to go. I'd seen everything: Marcos, the second-youngest, pacing around and around like a steam train, smoke coming out of his ears; Lorcan, perched on my desk, talking about how it was always "Lorcan and Lysander" and how they never seemed to be separate entities; quiet Ruby, the eldest, simply looking for a smile; even little April, simply sobbing into my pillow and whining out words about how mean Lysander was.

My room was a haven, a place of no judgement. If you wanted advice, you could get it; but mostly my family just unleashed their frustration, happy for a teddy bear to lend a listening ear. It wasn't a large role, but it was a fulfilling one, and I felt that I was really needed in the Payne household.

But I was still quiet old Ramona.

So when my thirteenth birthday came around, I thought for sure I would have a small, quiet savvy that I learned to scumble right quick.

Boy, was I wrong.


	2. Chapter One

I wake up to the sound of a slam.

Sitting up in bed, I shove the covers off of me, cracking the window curtains open. No wonder: the sun's up, and that's the only excuse one of the Paynes need to get out of bed. You'd think the seventeen-year-old twins would be grumpy teenagers like me, but they seem to relish rising and setting with the sun. I groan, a little miffed as the door slams again; probably one of the younger twins running in and out of the house. I quickly shove the emotion to the side, though; wouldn't want _that_ starting my day!

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling around for my slippers. I finally shove my feet into them, grateful that a furry creature didn't decide to snooze there for once. Standing up, I throw the curtains open, illuminating my small but organized room: all my little trinkets standing orderly on their shelves, my clean clothes packed away into the closet, my desk holding all its bits and bobbles in their relative compartments. It seems that a closed door was successful in keeping the animals out, for there is no recent fur on the carpet and no bird droppings (as far as I can tell).

I pull on my robe while opening the door, trip-trapping down the stairs and into the kitchen. Momma and Marcos are sitting at the table, brooding over the dregs of breakfast. The former smiles when she sees me come down. "About time, Ramona. I was afraid those cows would have to milk themselves."

I do my best not to groan. "Couldn't Marcos do it? Or Ruby?"

"'Not my job," Marcos grunts. Apparently I'm not the only one with early morning blues.

I grab a box of cereal and a bowl, sitting across from them. Our table is huge and stretches from one end of the dining room to the other- by ourselves we have nine people to seat, not to mention guests. Our family always seems to have a great number of people in our households.

"Cows first," Momma orders, and I stand obediently. _No frustration,_ I remind myself, pushing the screen door in the kitchen open.

The Payne family farm is famous. With Ruby's skill with animals, and Momma's with plants, we have the most successful area in the region. And though Ruby could tell those chickens to deliver eggs into the awaiting basket easy as pie, and Momma could make any weed wither and shrivel up with a simple glare, they send us to work every day. It's a hard job, but it has to be done.

The problem is, mainly, Ruby doesn't know when to stop. Milking the cows- well, on a family farm, that's not too hard, is it? We have twenty-eight cows- I counted. Not to mention the hundreds of chickens in the coops and the furry, feathered, and scaled critters running rampant in our house. They certainly can't feed themselves.

I sigh and sit down by the first cow, wrapping my fingers around the udder. At least I'll have milk to go with my cereal . . .

I pass Ruby on my way back inside. She towers over me- in fact, she's about the size of Poppa. It helps that she's wearing her big heeled cowboy boots as well; somehow, she manages to hop, skip, and jump in them, while I can't even be comfortable in quarter-inch heels.

Her hair is also something I admire. Mine is rust-colored and ugly, curly and cropped at my neck. I hate it, but I also don't let it grow out any more, for fear that it will get even more conspicuous. But Ruby's is the same color as her namesake, and is so straight that it seems to just flow down her back like a river.

I plod upstairs and pause in front of the mirror in the bathroom. My hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions like Bobbi, the newest kitten, traipsed over it. Actually, it's possible she _did;_ no one knows what goes on when we fall asleep.

I hate my appearance, I really do. Everyone else looks much nicer than me; even the younger twins pull off short curly hair better than I could. The only thing I'm really proud of are my eyes. The Payne family has a very diverse collection of eye colors, and I have the only brown ones in the family. Poppa has pretty grey-blue ones, which Lysander shares; Momma has grass green eyes that Lorcan got. Really, the male twins are just younger copies of my parents: Lysander has Poppa's brown hair, Lorcan Momma's blonde. Ruby and I are the only ones to have red hair, like our granny.

I run a brush under the tap and try to tame my curls. I pause when they look semi-decent, ignoring the nest of hair on the bristles, and go back downstairs to eat my breakfast. This time I really am alone.

Then I hear-

"I look _awful_ today," says Momma from the kitchen. I peek around the corner and see her staring at her reflection in the oven window. "Maybe I should try a different hairstyle . . . or dye my hair . . . "

I smile softly and walk in. "You're beautiful, Momma," I tell her, placing my hand on her arm. I concentrate on my eyes, how much I love them, how I would never, _ever_ give them up, even if I was offered a completely remade body. She smiles back at me, tearing her eyes away from the oven window. "You are too, Ramona."

I try to remember that. A self-conscious Momma is disturbing.

She brushes a stray curl out of my eyes and grabs my shoulder. "Come outside. I'd like to show you something."


End file.
